Trouble in the Town Hall (25 page)

And every senior policeman who could deal properly with it was occupied for the next twenty-seven hours with His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.

I'll never know how I managed to stay inside my skin for those next few hours. I ate something Jane supplied, without tasting it, and then sat with a book in my lap and the TV turned on, paying attention to neither, until it was time to go to bed.

That was possibly the worst part. I'd never been afraid of the dark, and after sleeping alone for over a year, I'd gotten over jumpiness. Now, every slight creak of the old house, every tap of tree branch against window, brought me wide awake, muscles tense, heart pounding. About two o'clock, I began to wonder whether I had really locked all the doors and windows downstairs. I was afraid to get up and check, and afraid not to. I finally tiptoed downstairs in the dark and checked everything—locked, of course—and scurried back up to bed with my heart beating so painfully fast I lay and worried about having a heart attack. I'd just made myself relax a little when I heard footsteps on the stairs.

I very nearly
did
have a heart attack before I realized the intruder was Emmy.

That did it; enough was enough. I rummaged in my medicine cabinet and found two antihistamine tablets, which always knock me out. I woke only when church bells roused me, dry-mouthed from the cold tablets but in my right mind.

I was in no danger. I never had been. Benson—it was easier to go on thinking of him as Benson—had no idea I suspected anything. And this was Sunday, a beautiful summer Sunday in the most civilized, law-abiding country on earth. As long as I acted normal, pursued my usual activities and kept my mouth shut, I would come to no harm. And in a few hours—I glanced at my watch—in thirteen hours or so, I could turn the whole terrible business over to Alan and retire from the field.

The amateur sleuths who got into trouble, I reminded myself, were the ones who went off on their own, performing silly heroics. Obviously, an intelligent person who minded her own business was perfectly safe.

I had reckoned without the influence of the Church.

Since I would normally attend Matins and the Eucharist on a Sunday morning, I fed the cats, got dressed, and made my way across the Close. I did try to be a little late, so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. Then I would leave early, for the same reason, stick close to home until time for the concert, and tell Alan my whole story as soon as I possibly could.

All went according to plan until we got to the psalm appointed for the day. I was enjoying the harmonies of the male choir until the words began to get through to me. “. . . It is God that girdeth me with strength . . . He teacheth mine hands to fight . . . I will follow upon mine enemies and overtake them; neither will I turn again till I have destroyed them . . . .”

The rest of the lessons were a call to action, as well, the sermon followed suit, and to top it off, the final hymn was “Onward, Christian Soldiers!”

Now, I'm not the superstitious type. I don't try to solve problems by opening the Bible at random and reading a verse, and I think it's downright presumptuous to go around asking for a sign from above.

On the other hand, when I'm bombarded with messages all saying the same thing, I do begin to wonder.

Jane caught up with me as I hurried home. “No coffee this morning, Dorothy?” She was panting; my legs are longer than hers.

“Not this morning,” I said, smiling but not slacking my pace. “I'll talk to you later; there's something I have to do.”

If only I were sure what!

There was no point in pretending, I thought to myself over coffee in the kitchen, that I was fired solely by zeal to do what might possibly be my Christian duty. The truth was, inaction had never suited me. Common sense be damned; I wanted to charge off in some direction or other. My problem, as usual, was to decide which direction.

Very well. I dug in a drawer for my lists and consulted them. They were no help at all. I now knew the answers to all my questions. The trouble was proving the story, and that was police work.

Yes, but was it?

The police couldn't take action for several hours yet, and meanwhile, what was Benson up to? Mrs. Hawkins had said he was away for the weekend. What if he was escaping at this very moment? What if someone else knew too much, and he was busy disposing of another body? What if . . .?

What if I could uncover some proof of Benson's guilt while he was away? That would force the police, busy as they were, to take action—to find him, arrest him.

But where to look? He would have thrown the key to the Town Hall in the river long ago, surely. And the Hall itself could hold no clue; the police had searched it thoroughly, and they simply don't miss anything these days, even the most microscopic evidence.

But they hadn't, so far as I knew, searched Benson's room at the King's Head. Why would they? They had no reason to suspect him.

But I had.

T
HERE
'
S VIRTUALLY NO
traffic in Sherebury on a Sunday morning, so I drove to the King's Head unscathed, parked my car, and went in to find Mrs. Hawkins busy setting tables for the lunchtime rush that would arrive in about an hour. I was the only customer in the place, and she served me my coffee with a preoccupied smile and immediately went back to her work. Good.

I paid my bill and drank two cups of excellent coffee as fast as I could, to provide myself with an excuse to go upstairs to the ladies' loo. I needn't have bothered; no one was paying the slightest attention.

After a genuinely necessary stop at the facilities, I turned the other way, toward the guest rooms. I didn't know which one was Benson's, of course, but for a long-term guest it would probably be one of the biggest and best the house had to offer. And in an old inn like this, that would mean a center room, looking out over either the river or the garden. With a guilty glance over my shoulder, I chose a likely door, knocked twice, and then took out my Swiss Army knife.

I've been teased about my extra-large, all-inclusive Swiss Army knife, lying heavily at the bottom of my purse at all times. The fact remains that nothing comes in quite so handy in quite so many situations. I had even used mine for a spot or two of burglary before, but in every case on doors for which I possessed a legitimate key, somewhere. This door, loose-fitting, with an old lock, would have been easy if my hands hadn't been shaking and slippery with sweat. I dropped the knife with a clatter that sounded like the entire percussion section of a brass band—but no one came, and I doggedly carried on until the bolt slipped back and I was in.

It was a pleasant room with a little balcony. More to the point, it was the right one. I could see that at a glance. Even if I hadn't recognized the sport coat hanging over the back of a chair, the room bore signs of long occupancy—a half-empty box of cigars, a pile of well-thumbed magazines, no luggage in sight.

Very well. I was here. Now what?

It would have been easier if I'd known what I was looking for, but I was determined to be as thorough as possible, under the circumstances. I knew Alan would have my head if I disturbed evidence for the police, but I could look, so long as I was careful. I locked the door behind me and began.

A search of the clothes hanging in the wardrobe revealed nothing. Nothing in the pockets except what one would expect—train tickets, dirty handkerchiefs, shreds of tobacco. No stains I could see on any article of clothing.

The drawers were no more helpful. Besides the usual underwear and socks there was only a pornographic novel, lying offensively in the bedside drawer on top of the Gideon Bible. It was certainly nasty, but probably not illegal, and if there was anything hidden in it, I wasn't going to find it. I couldn't bring myself to pick the thing up, even with a tissue over my hand.

It was as I was about to check the bathroom that I heard footsteps. The wide old floorboards creaked as the steps drew nearer, and for a moment I couldn't think at all. The balcony? Too small, no place to hide. The bathroom? I'd be discovered at once. In total panic I dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed.

Of course the steps went on past. “The wicked flee when no man pursueth.” I lay and listened while whoever it was stopped at the end of the hall and a door opened and closed. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears I had trouble hearing further movement, but when a toilet flushed, I was pretty sure I had heard a resident of the hotel, not an employee who might enter other rooms in turn. I could get up.

Sure, I could. Getting into that tight space with adrenaline pushing me all the way had been one thing. Forcing arthritic joints to get me out was another. I wiggled and grunted, and finally hooked my fingers into the bedsprings to give me some leverage.

But my left hand couldn't find a purchase. There was something in the way—not a bed slat, but something smooth that, as my fingers poked blindly at it, gave way and dropped onto my stomach.

Fingers and toes shoving against the springs, I managed finally to wriggle out from under, sit up, and look at my find.

It was a wallet, or at least a small black leather folder intended to carry papers of some sort. It bulged slightly in the middle.

It held two things. One was a ring, a heavily carved man's ring with small gold prongs bent slightly back where the stone had been.

The other was a key.

I managed to stand up, every joint protesting, and then sneezed six times in a row. The standard of housekeeping was very high at the King's Head, but even they did not dust the underside of the bedsprings very often.

Which created a dilemma. I had done exactly what I had warned myself not to do—tampered with evidence. I held in my hands the missing key to the Town Hall, and one of the rings Benson had been wearing when he had delivered a deathblow to Jack Jenkins.

They should have been left exactly where they were, with the dust on the springs but not on the wallet showing that they hadn't been there very long. But there was no point in putting them back now, not with my fingerprints all over them. Besides, Benson might realize they'd been disturbed and throw them out.

Why on earth hadn't he disposed of them? The answer, I supposed, lay in the setting that was missing from the ring. He'd kept the key to search for the stone in the Town Hall, where it must have fallen when he hit Jack. Some hope—the police would have found it long ago.

And maybe he'd kept the ring, stupidly, because it was valuable and he didn't think anyone would notice.

Well, no one had. I'd even seen that he wore one ring that didn't fit, that fell off, and thought nothing about what it might be replacing. I'd heard nothing about any gem being found—

Wait a minute! The police hadn't found it! Alan would have told me. And if they hadn't found it, it wasn't there. They use a vacuum at crime scenes these days, with a very fine filter, and sift through absolutely everything.

They hadn't found it. Pettifer said he hadn't found anything. Benson hadn't found it or he wouldn't have kept the key. That meant—

Mrs. Finch.

Dear Mrs. Finch, going around with her rags and her polish and her mop the next morning, scrubbing conscientiously in all the corners. Picking up something small and shiny, perhaps, and dropping it in her capacious handbag—and forgetting all about it when she discovered the body.

How long was it going to take Benson to make that same connection?

I peeked out the door before scuttling down the back stairs and out the back door. I hadn't been able to lock Benson's door behind me, but that was the least of my worries just now.

Bob was still setting out wallflowers in my flower beds.

“Is your mother busy this afternoon, Bob?” I would have her over for tea, and casually bring up odd things I had found while cleaning, and—

“She's in Brighton, 'avin' a nice day out. Be 'ome by teatime, she said, so as to dress proper for the concert. Ever such a one for royalty, she is, and no end pleased at the chance to see 'Is 'Ighness.”

It was time to turn this all over to the police. I picked up the phone.

“Inspector Morrison? I'm so sorry, Mrs. Martin, he's following up a lead in Sheffield. Shall I try to reach him, or would you like to talk to someone else? We're a bit shorthanded, what with the visit and all, but I could try—”

“No, it's all right. Nothing that can't wait.” At any rate, it would have to. Now there was nothing for it but to wait for Mrs. Finch.

T
HE FIRST ONE
in the cathedral when it opened for the concert, I waited by the door in an agony of apprehension until a hat appeared that even I found amazing.

“Mrs. Finch! Ada, I mean, sorry. I'm so glad I saw you. You look splendid.”

She preened herself. The bright blue silk dress was a trifle tight, and the hat had probably been worn to weddings since the fifties.

“Ta, dearie.” Her hand brushed one of the ostrich feathers and set it trembling, shedding a trifle in the process. “Wot I say is, 'ee may not've been quite the gent to 'is wife, but 'ee 'ad a lot to put up with, dint 'ee? An' still an' all, 'ee's the next king, an' we owes 'im respect.”

I stayed by her side as we walked up the aisle, not trying to deal with her views on royal infidelity. “Do you have anyone to sit with? Would you mind if I keep you company?”

She looked gratified at that, but doubtful. “I'd like that, I'm sure, dearie, but the seats is reserved, you know. Mine is—” she looked at her ticket again “—is down this row 'ere. Where's yours?”

“Oh, it's up front somewhere. I'll bet whoever is sitting next to you wouldn't mind trading with me.” And if they did, I wasn't above a bribe. Of course, if there were two people together, on both sides of her, we'd have trouble. But I'd manage it somehow. I intended to stick to Ada Finch like glue, if I had to sit on the floor.